to blame when she is noisy and
assertive and treats Lord Darrowood with bad taste?"

"Certainly--she only does those things when she is excited and has gone
back to her group. When she is under her proper control she plays the
part of an English marchioness very well. It is the prerogative of a new
race to be able to play a part; the result of the cunning and strength
which have been required of the immediate forbears in order to live at
all under unfavorable conditions. Now, had her father been a Deptford
ox-slaughterer instead of a Chicago pig-sticker she could never have
risen to the role of a marchioness at all. This is no new country; it
does not need nor comprehend bluff, and so produces no such type as Lady
Darrowood."

At this moment Lady Ethelrida again caught sight of Zara. She was silent
at the instant, and a look of superb pride and disdain was on her face.
Almost before she was aware of it Ethelrida had exclaimed:

"Your niece looks like an empress, a wonderful, Byzantine, Roman
empress!"

Francis Markrute glanced at her, sideways, with his clever eyes; had she
ever heard anything of Zara's parentage, he wondered for a second, and
then he smiled at himself for the thought. Lady Ethelrida was not likely
to have spoken so in that case--she would not be acting up to her group.

"There are certain reasons why she should," he said. "I cannot answer
for the part of her which comes from her father, Maurice Grey, a very
old English family, I believe, but on her mother's side she could have
the passions of an artist and the pride of a Caesar: she is a very
interesting case."

"May I know something of her?" Ethelrida said, "I do so want them to be
happy. Tristram is one of the simplest and finest characters I have ever
met. He will love her very much, I fear."

"Why do you say you _fear?_"

Lady Ethelrida reddened a little; a soft, warm flush came into her
delicate face and made it look beautiful: she never spoke of love--to
men.

"Because a great love is a very powerful and sometimes a terrible thing,
if it is not returned in like measure. And, oh, forgive me for saying
so, but the Countess Shulski does not look as if--she loved
Tristram--much."

Francis Markrute did not speak for an instant, then he turned and gazed
straight into her eyes gravely, as he said:

"Believe me, I would not allow your cousin to marry my niece if I were
not truly convinced that it will be for the eventual great happiness of